Foresight And Future
by The-Lady-Isis
Summary: The love of Éomer and Lothíriel was seen long before they met - but foresight and future do not always coincide. What will the consequences be when two mortals dare to defy the fates, and forge their own path through the turmoil that devours Middle Earth?
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, or any characters/places associated with it. Tolkien was a genius, I am a humble pretender. With no money, so please don't sue me. **

**A/N: This is my first crack at a LOTR fic, and I have to say thank you to Lialathuveril, twice, in fact. One - her writing is what inspired me to try my hand at Éomer/ Lothíriel. If you haven't read any, go do so right now. Two - a **_**massive**_** thank you for all her help in seeking out a beta reader. On that note, I haven't managed to find one yet, so if there are any obliging people out there with LOTR knowledge, please let me know in a review. **

**Right, on with the show, shall we? **

**Foresight and Future**

**Prologue**

Imrahil sighed, looking to his wife. "Where is it?"

"What?" she asked with a frown.

"The Rothloth," he elaborated. "Where is it?"

A voice sounded from behind them. "Well, I'm here."

They both turned to see their youngest son, an innocent expression etched on his face. Imrahil wasn't fooled — innocent with Amrothos meant he'd just done something. The idea that he should tell Théoden to check he still had all his horses ran through the prince's head.

And if Roth had landed himself in trouble, normally Imrahil's only daughter was not far behind. "Where is your sister?" he asked.

Roth shrugged. "With Éowyn probably."

He did not sound all that pleased, but his father knew that did not come from any real dislike of the King's niece. Lothíriel and her twin were very close, even now when they were growing up, they hadn't grown apart. In just a few days, Imrahil and his youngest son would both lose their favourite women in the world — his own wife Mirima would remain in Lothlòrien, with Lothíriel as her nurse. The prince of Dol Amroth did not know if he would ever see his wife again, and if he ever laid eyes on his daughter … she would be a woman totally; a woman he would have no idea how to relate to. He knew Amrothos had been wanting to spend as much time as possible with his twin, but Loth couldn't really be blamed for enjoying some female company — with three brothers it was something she was mostly starved of. Since their arrival in Edoras a week ago, she and Éowyn had become fast friends; Imrahil had the feeling an age-mate was something the older girl had been missing as well.

However, neither young woman seemed particularly inclined to follow the more leisurely, traditional pursuits for women. In fact the greater the risk of injury or death the better.

Imrahil groaned, even as he heard the King of Rohan ask Mirima, "The Rothloth?"

She chuckled, then explained. "Amrothos and Lothíriel. They are so often in trouble together that we have taken to referring to them collectively."

"It sounds like some kind of monster," Thoéden smiled.

"Exactly," Imrahil agreed grimly.

* * *

The arrow thudded into the centre of the target neatly, quivering slightly. Lothíriel smiled at it, then lowered her bow. Next to her, her new blonde friend's mouth was yet to close. "I am so jealous!" she cried. "I would never be able to hit a target at that distance!"

The princess shrugged, indicating the sword that stood in the grass at Éowyn's feet. "Well, I would never be able to lift a sword, so we are even."

Éowyn grinned, then turned back toward the city. They were only a little way outside the walls, since there was nowhere they were able to practice archery Edoras, and certainly nowhere in Meduseld. "Come — I am hungry," she said, leading the way.

The two friends set off, entering the gates with smiles and greetings to the guards stationed there. "Will Greta mind, do you think?" Lothíriel asked. "It is not all that long since breakfast."

Éowyn's smile turned sly. "Not if you ask in Rohirric."

Lothíriel looked aghast at the idea. "Éowyn, you know I can't —"

"Nonsense," she said firmly.

In the short time she'd known her, Lothíriel was already very well aware that Éowyn was as stubborn as she was. It would do little good arguing with her. "Very well — what are the words?" she sighed.

A few moments later, Lothíriel pushed open the doors to the cavernous royal kitchens. The head cook, a woman named Greta who could have been any age between thirty and fifty, and would inevitably be here for probably generations to come.

"Greta?" she asked timidly — though kind, she was also stern. Much like Aunt Irviniel. Standing up straight, the dark-haired girl recited the words that Éowyn had taught her. Judging by the smile that spread over Greta's face, her pronunciation was definitely off, but the woman stood silent until the princess had finished, and then promptly gestured for the two girls to sit down while she place warm, honey-sweetened pot bread onto plates for them. They thanked her and then began eating.

At the first mouthful, Éowyn moaned in delight, then put it down once more, her expression suddenly miserable. "Oh, I wish you didn't have to leave today!"

Lothíriel nodded. "As do I."

"We'll both be so lonely," Éowyn sighed.

"Nonsense!" Lothíriel insisted. "You will have plenty of things to keep you occupied."

"Yes," her friend allowed, "but until Éomer gets back I will have no one to talk to. And you, off to live with Elves!"

It was Lothíriel's turn to seem depressed. She dropped her bread onto the plate, no longer hungry. "I would give almost anything not to be going," she said said quietly.

Éowyn put an arm around her shoulders in awkward comfort, but before she could think of anything to say, the doors creaked open. Lothíriel's mother stepped in, her face lighting in fondness and exasperation upon seeing them. "There you two are! King Théoden was about to dispatch a search party!"

Lothíriel stood immediately. "Sorry, Mama. I'm just coming now."

As they passed the door, Éowyn decided to plead her case with the elder princess of Dol Amroth. "Can't you stay even one more day, Lady Mirima?"

She shook her head with a smile. "I'm afraid not, my dear." Her smile faded a little, went distant. "Besides, I have a feeling that soon, you will not miss Lothíriel all that much."

"What do you mean?" the young noble asked, frowning.

"When we go, keep watching the east," Mirima said, leading the two of them outside. "Your brother is returning."

Instantly, Éowyn's pale face brightened as she grinned excitedly. "Éomer, really?"

Mirima smiled at the teenager's enthusiasm. "Yes."

Éowyn dashed over to the top of the Meduseld steps, looking eagerly eastward. Lothíriel went to stand by her friend, blonde hair mixing with black as they both floated in the breeze. Mirima watched her daughter, content that her daughter had the happy talent to make friends easily, but sad, too, that this new friendship could not last. They would be on their way all-too-soon, and she did not see how they would be back.

Her husband's hand found hers, and he smiled at her, knowing where her thoughts were going. "It is not your fault, Miri," he murmured. "You know that."

She nodded. "Yes. But we have taken so much of their childhood from them."

"Middle Earth has done that," he said firmly. "Now come. We must go."

She nodded, called to her daughter. "Loth."

Her daughter turned, eyes huge and — naturally — turned on her father. "Ada, can't we —"

"No, Loth," he said gently. "We can't."

Sighing, the young princess turned toward them. Suddenly Éowyn grasped her hand. "Lothíriel, look!"

She looked in the direction Éowyn was pointing; the blonde girl must have only been able to see the glitter of shields, but Lothíriel could see far more clearly than she. They were a little over five leagues away, but she could still make out helms and the faces under them clearly.

"Can you see him?"

She shrugged. "What is his helm like?"

"It has white horsehair at the back," Éowyn said, sounding excited.

Lothíriel scanned, but she could see nothing like what Éowyn described. "I'm sorry," she shrugged. "I'm sure he's there, though."

Éowyn nodded, a disappointed expression on her face. "It's a shame. I would have liked you to meet him."

Before Lothíriel could reply, her mother reached out, tugging gently on the end of her braid to remind her that it was time to go. Suddenly, though, the world around her shifted. Still the steps of Meduseld, and still her daughter — but her daughter a decade older. Her daughter still here, still waiting for this same man. Her daughter with a child in her arms. A blond little toddler settled on her hip.

"_Mirima!" _

Lothíriel was whispering to him, her head inclined toward her son but eyes on the column of men coming through the gates of Edoras — on the man at its head in particular.

"_Mama!"_

Mirima didn't want to leave this little scene. It was too perfect. But still, she felt the voice pulling at her.

"_Mama!"_

As the young family embraced and Lothíriel kissed her husband, Mirima felt the tug of Lothíriel's true voice increase, and could ignore it no longer.

She blinked, and found herself looking into her daughter's concerned green eyes. "Mama?" she asked. "Are you …?"

Mirima nodded. "Yes." She saw her husband and daughter share a concerned glance, and knew why they were worried. Now that she had seen the future once, she would continue to do so — the visions would become more fractured, more patchy, and more violent. Happy futures were few and far between. This was why they had left Dol Amroth, after all.

Still, she found a smile from somewhere as the Dol Amroth party began to mount and prepare to leave Edoras. After saying farewell to Théoden and thanking him for his immense hospitality and the wonderful horse he had gifted to her, she turned to where Lothíriel and Éowyn were saying their goodbyes. After Lothíriel had mounted, Mirima spoke to Éowyn.

"Do not worry, Éowyn. You will be seeing one another again."

_I have seen it. _

* * *

**A/N: Review please! **


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: Thank you to Melibells, for reviewing :) **

**Chapter One**

"Naneth?" Lothíriel's voice was gentle, soothing.

It had been a long time since she had used anything but this tone. It made no difference to her mother, she knew, but how could one shout at a sick woman? It was difficult sometimes, though. Especially when your own mama was attacking you, thinking you one of the many nightmarish creatures which inhabited her days and nights. Today had been a good day — Mirima had spent most of the sunlight hours sleeping. Peacefully, too, which was a blessing from Eru Himself. These days not even Lady Galadriel could do much to help her.

The princess would have given almost anything not to break that peace, but she had no choice. Her mother had not eaten in over three days, and was becoming more gaunt with each passing day. Lothíriel was no fool; she knew what would happen soon. Contemplating her mother's death caused a gamut of sickening emotions to rise in her stomach: the immediate and obvious sadness — but also the relief that she hated. Self-disgust that came straight after that. But it had been so _long_.

She shook Mirima's shoulder again. "Naneth, wake."

Slowly, her mother's green eyes — the same as Lothíriel's — opened. For a moment she thought she saw recognition flash in their depths. Felt hope stir within her own breast, but like all the times before it, it was short-lived. Fear clouded any memory Mirima may have had of her daughter. Lothíriel suspected she knew that no one else could see the terrors she saw. But that did not mean they were not real to her mother.

Lothíriel sat on the edge of the couch her mother lay on. "You must eat something, Naneth."

The first of many tears began snaking down Mirima's face. Lothíriel had been her mother's nurse for all of their time in Lòrien, and she no longer shed tears in sympathy. She hadn't shed tears at all for years now. Being in constant contact with so much grief and fear had desensitised her — she felt neither now.

Focusing on the task at hand, she broke off a corner of the lembas in her hand. The waybread was all her mother could manage now. A full meal was certainly out of the question, but the lembas would sustain her mother for long periods with only a little time actually spent eating. Once it was swallowed, she lifted a goblet of water from the Silverlode to Mirima's lips, helping her take several mouthfuls.

Almost as soon as the silver cup had left her lips, the babbling started. It came in a flood of languages; Elvish, Westron … Even an odd word or two in Rohirric, if she wasn't much mistaken. It had a different rhythm to the others. Less Elvish in origin, but flowing in a contrasting way. Lothíriel had always thought of languages as rivers. Elvish … Elvish was like the Silverlode; lilting, sweet, clear and gentle. Westron was the Anduin; a less cultured and ancient language, and far easier to curse and express anger in. Rohirric … she wasn't sure, but she could not liken it to a river. The falls of Rauros perhaps. Not crude, but … raw. A tongue more concerned with war than poetry.

She wondered where her mother had learned it. She knew her father and brothers passed through Rohan each year in order to visit them, but neither she nor her mother had been outside the borders of Lothlòrien for years, not since she'd been fifteen.

Leaving that aside for a moment, she focused on what Mama was saying. It was the same thing she'd been warning of for weeks. That she would die before the shadow of war broke. That with her death, Lothíriel would leave Lòrien to seek her part in the battle. Lothíriel's heart sank as Mirima said the words she hated again — that her place in this war would not be with her family. She would not journey to Gondor and fight there. Would she ever see Dol Amroth again? It had been so long … she had forgotten what the sea sounded like.

A hand was laid gently on her shoulder. She'd not heard Lady Galadriel's approach, but that was not surprising. The Lady of the Golden Wood floated rather than walked. She was a creature apart even from the rest of the Elves here.

"How is she?"

"No better," she replied simply. "I … do not think it will be long now."

Galadriel nodded. "And her visions?"

"The same. I am still to fight in-"

"_Imrahil!_"

Lothíriel cut off as her mother cried out, fear and devastation in her voice. The princess winced, stroked Mirima's hair back. "Hush, Naneth. Ada is safe. He is in Dol Amroth, and safe," she murmured soothingly. She was all-too-aware that it might not be true. From the sea, her father might be facing corsairs. From land, the Haradrrim. Perhaps not Orcs, but the forces of Mordor nonetheless.

Perhaps some of her doubt crept into her tone, since Mirima was not calmed, and only struggled harder. Galadriel reached past her, laying a cool hand on her mother's brow. Slowly, the yells subsided into whimpers, the fighting into flinches. She slipped into an uneasy slumber.

Slowly, Lothíriel let go of her mother's arms, and looked up to the Elf with a sigh. "Thank you."

The lady stroked her hair. "Would that I could do more for her."

Lothíriel shook her head. "You have done so much for us. There will never be a way for me to repay you."

"Nonsense." She straightened, and the little corner of the room where her mother's bed lay grew a little darker. She put a palm on Lothíriel's shoulder. "Come, Aranel. You yourself need to eat and sleep."

The dark-haired woman smiled tiredly. "Food I will agree to gladly; sleep I am afraid has been an elusive quarry."

Galadriel nodded. "I fear it will become even more precious a commodity in the coming days." She gestured with a graceful motion for Lothíriel to walk with her. "We have other guests with us, arrived today. They are all on a quest of great secrecy — I will not tell you what it is," she said, apparently sensing the rise of the princess's curiosity. It was rare that visitors from the world outside of Lòrien, and the Golden Wood _was _another world. Galadriel continued, "but they are weary, and sorrowful — there are also four perian with them."

"Halflings?" Lothíriel asked in surprise. "I had thought them a myth."

"No, they are as real as you or I. I only tell you not to display your shock; they have been through much recently, and do not wish to explain their existence again."

"I understand," Lothíriel nodded.

Galadriel smiled. "Good." She stopped. "I will leave you now."

Lothíriel nodded, having the feeling Galadriel had something important she needed to attend to. Once they separated, Lothíriel found something to eat. She was no longer really hungry, but knew she should eat anyway. She managed some lembas, and water, then decided to go for a walk, munching on an apple as she went. She exchanged cordial nods with everyone she passed, smiles and greetings with some. She had friends here, and for that she was grateful, but sometimes she could not shake the feeling she was regarded in Lòrien as a child. She could not pretend it was not irking — to the Elves she was a child, she knew that, but still. Outside of this enchanted forest, she had dreams and desires, wanted to forge a life that was wholly her own. Which led her back to her guilt. She couldn't do that yet. _Until Mama … _

"Lothíriel."

At the calling of her name, she looked around. No one shouted here; there was no need. And because there were no real young people here, acuteness of hearing was not the only reason no one shouted. She missed Arwen. Though she was still thousands of years Lothíriel's elder, Arwen was her best friend. She'd left for Imladris several months ago, and since then she'd heard no shouting. Arwen had a youthfulness of spirit — did shout, sometimes, for the sheer joy of it.

But now that she was gone, Lothíriel's life had become entirely too quiet. Apart from one thing. She smiled at Haldir, who returned it. "Trying to escape practice?" he asked.

"Would it be worth the effort?" she chuckled.

"Nay, I do not believe it would be," he agreed. "Come then."

They walked together down to the training platforms. Though everything here was done in the trees, the ground below was part of Lòrien too, and needed protection. All Elves had some natural skill with a bow; with her enhanced senses it was an ability Lothíriel had inherited, thanks to the Elven blood in her veins. Even so, in order to be a competent warrior she couldn't rely on archery. In close quarters it would be her swordplay that would save her life. And who better to train her than the Marchwarden?

Once there, Haldir threw her two long knives. She caught them deftly, then fell into a defensive stance automatically. The use of two weapons was usually a custom of the Mirkwood Elves, but Lothíriel found she got on better with them rather than the scimitar most of the Elves here did. It may have seemed like an unfair fight to an observer, but she knew that Haldir could wield his singular blade with far more skill than she could. He had had two millennia more than she to practice after all.

Still, for a human she wasn't doing too badly, she hoped. Taking a deep breath, she faced him, and they bowed to one another. "Lle desiel?" he asked.

She nodded, and then they began.

The speed with which he leapt at her almost made it seem like he was flying. It no longer phased her; rather than staring in awe, Lothíriel knew enough to get out of the way. Or rather, raise her weapons in time to parry the blow. The sharp sound of metal on metal split the muffled quiet of Lòrien, then again. Lothíriel went on the defensive, knocking his arm away with one knife and surging forward. He was ready for it, and though he gave ground, it was only to gain more manoeuvring room, and went for her ribs. Lothíriel spun away, using both blades this time. Haldir twisted his sword, sending one of her knives up into the air, blade over hilt in flashing silver. For a moment she fought with her shorter blade; he had the advantage of reach, but with her knife she had more control, and could put more power behind her thrusts.

Stronger than she, though, Haldir pushed forward, his blade sliding down hers and coming dangerously close to her face. With a burst of strength against him, Lothíriel shoved his blade away, following it with a roundhouse kick that impacted into the Elf's side. While he stumbled backward to regain his balance, she lunged for her other blade. Her hand met the hilt and closed around it; she rolled to regain her feet and ended in a crouch, blades already up to —

Haldir rested his blade gently against her throat.

"Lava?" he asked.

Lothíriel smiled, noting with triumph that Haldir was breathing at least as hard as she. Still, she wasn't beaten just yet. Moving suddenly, she kicked out with her right leg, and the Elf went down beside her, winded — but chuckling. "Very good."

She grinned, still breathless. "Now I yield."

She laughed, closing her eyes for a moment to calm her breathing. She opened them to find a hand in front of her face, that did not belong to Haldir. Still, she took it, and the unfamiliar Elf pulled her to her feet. Once standing, she smiled at her assistant. "Thank you."

He looked surprised — as far as any Elf ever looked surprised — and addressed her. "You are no Elf," he said mildly.

"No, I am not," she agreed with a slight bow of her head. "A human only."

He continued to regard her in that calm, searching way all Elves did when they first met her. When she had asked Lady Galadriel, the reply had been helpful in a vague way. They studied her because she existed for a purpose. She had a part to play. As a child, the compassionate study had been nigh impossible for her to withstand, and she remembered hiding behind her mother many a time. Now though, after so many years in Lothlórien, maintaining a level gaze was not so difficult.

Finally he smiled. "Yet the blood of the _elleth _is resplendent in you. I see much of my kin in your face."

That could only be a compliment. "Thank you," she smiled.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Lothíriel — I hail from Dol Amroth. And you?" she continued. "You are not —" Looking past him, her eyes widened in recognition and shock. "Boromir?" she whispered, unable to believe what her gaze was telling her.

Likewise, Boromir had heard her name herself, and his grey eyes were now fixed upon her. "Cousin?" He moved forward, shock on his face as he studied hers.

Lothíriel did the same — he was as handsome as she remembered, but older, and there was something … else. Some spark in his gaze that had not been there the last time she had looked into them. He had always been passionate about whatever he did, she remembered, though they had not seen one another in many years. Perhaps that was it. She didn't think so, though. Whatever it was, it brought a chill to her skin.

His eyes scanned her body as well as her face then, and Lothíriel felt comprehension enter her thoughts. _Oh._ Though they were related, it wasn't unheard of for cousins to marry, and Lothíriel remembered Elphir telling her once that once day she would probably marry Boromir or his younger brother. Truthfully she did not mind their relation or the age gap. There were worse men to marry.

Apparently delighted with the woman he now found her to be, Boromir clasped her hands in his and kissed her on both cheeks. "Cousin!" He leaned back. "Lothíriel, you — have grown," he continued, apparently at a loss for the right adjective. "How is it you are here?"

Her smile vanished. "Mother," she said, the corners of her mouth curling down. "She …" Her breathing hitched as she realised what she was about to say, though she forced the words out as if expelling a foul taste from her mouth. "She is dying," she told him.

Sympathy filled his face. "Oh, Lothíriel."

He pulled her into an embrace, seemingly under the impression that she was about weep. Instead she patted him on the back, wrinkling her nose slightly — Lady Galadriel had said they had only recently arrived, but her cousin for one needed a bath. When they pulled apart, she smiled. "How is it you are here?"

Immediately, his caring expression disappeared. It was as though he was withdrawing into himself; his gaze shifted nervously to the Elf still stood slightly behind her, and then around to the canopy surrounding them. As though he had something to hide, Lothíriel found herself thinking. Struck with a sudden urge to change the subject, the princess moved her attention back to the Elf.

"My apologies," she said. "I have not asked your name."

He bowed slightly. "I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm; son of Thranduil."

"A prince, no less," she smiled.

Legolas nodded. "Indeed," he agreed, indicating Boromir, "we are many of us of noble birth on this quest."

She nodded. "Lady Galadriel informed me of your arrival. How many are you?"

Instantly, Legolas's mouth turned down, and Lothíriel became aware that something terrible must have happened on their journey. "Eight," he said quietly. "We are eight now."

Lothíriel looked around at Boromir, who was once more avoiding her gaze. "Who have you lost?"

He took her arm, leading her away from Legolas. She knew that out of courtesy Legolas would not listen, but should he wish to he certainly would hear them. Still, she focused her attention on Boromir and his suddenly sombre expression.

"Mithrandir," he said finally.

Lothíriel gasped. "Eru, no!"

It couldn't be true. The Grey Wizard, _gone_? Of all the people fighting on the side of light, he had surely been the most powerful. Now that Saruman the White had betrayed them, there was no one else who could stand up to him. She had never spoken to Mithrandir, though she had seen him from afar a few times, both here and when their visits to Minas Tirith coincided. As a little girl she remembered wanting to giggle at the sight of his bushy eyebrows, but being too in awe to quite dare to. But the Wizards were as immortal as the Elves, _more _so, in a certain way. A Ring Bearer, too. Now that he was gone … it was only Lady Galadriel left. The Nazgûl had the Nine rings. The Seven were lost wherever the Dwarves had secreted them. Now of the Three only two remained.

And The All High only knew where the One Ring was. She shivered at even thought of it. She had no desire to ever know where it was, to be in close proximity to it, or to ever think of it for as long as she lived. Perhaps living here had enforced a wariness of all things magical. She revered and loved Galadriel, but equally she feared her. She feared anyone or anything with that much power. She didn't like to think of it as fear, of course. More a healthy respect. It was one of many Elven habits she had developed here. Strange, for creatures magic in bone and blood. The point was, though, without people who _did _understand magic on their side … what chance did they stand?

"We are lost," she whispered.

"No," Boromir said, grasping her upper arms tightly. "No, Loth."

The childhood nickname made her look at him numbly. "How?" she asked. "How can we —"

He lowered his voice, brought his face closer to hers. "By using the weapon of the Enemy against him."

It took her a moment of silent gaping before it hit Lothíriel exactly what her cousin was suggesting. She broke out of his grasp with horror in her eyes. "No!" she gasped.

His eyes hardened, shut against her. The grey of his gaze went from the sea to iron walls. "It may be our only hope," he said.

"It is madness!" she returned. She moved forward, taking his face between her hands. "Boromir, please! See reason, you must know that to even _attempt _to —"

He pushed her away. "You have spent too much time with the Elves, cousin. You have forgotten where your allegiances lie!"

His words stung, perhaps because in her heart she feared he was right. She knew nothing about Gondor or Dol Amroth now. But she knew what was right. She knew what was folly, mad, what could be evil. "I know exactly where my allegiances lie — with anyone allied against Mordor. Continue on this path and it will _not _be you! Boromir, what has happened to you?"

She reached out to him again, and again he pushed her hand away. "I have seen reason."

"This is not reason, this is desperation!"

"It may be a desperate choice," he replied, "but these are desperate times."

She scanned his face, unable to believe what she was hearing. "You are not the man I remember," she said finally, her voice now quiet. "The man you once were."

With one last contemptuous glance, Boromir turned his back, and stormed away.

* * *

What time her mother had died, Lothíriel couldn't be sure. What she did know was that all she felt was relief. Her mother was so tranquil. She had never been tranquil. She did not look at all as though she were dead — but she looked different. Lothíriel could almost see the colour in her cheeks. She looked … at peace.

Lothíriel did not cry; she smoothed her mother's hair back, kissed her forehead. "I love you, Mama. Quel esta."

She stood, looked toward the doorway. The Lady stood there: cool, calm. Waiting with serenity. She held a white candle in her hand. "She is dead," she said.

Lothíriel nodded. "Yes. I must go."

"Yes. We will honour her, until you return."

The princess moved over to a small wooden chest. Made of sandalwood, the rich fragrant scent spilled out as she opened the lid. Inside were the items mother and daughter held most dear. A necklace from her father. A strip of silk from her mother's wedding gown. Letters from her brothers. On top of the pile, though, was a letter Lothíriel herself had written. She had been waiting until this moment to send it. It was addressed to her father.

She opened it, read it once more. It contained everything she needed to say, and ended with her hopes that she would see him and her brothers again soon. She knew it was probably false hope. With a sigh, she folded the parchment and took the candle Galadriel passed to her. She took the stick of sealing wax from the bottom of chest, and heated it, red wax dripping onto the paper. That done, she removed the seal of Dol Amroth from around her neck and pressed it to the pool of liquid wax. The swan ship looked back at her. She handed the packet to the Lady. "Will you see this gets to my father?" she asked.

Galadriel nodded. "A messenger will be dispatched to Dol Amroth immediately."

"Thank you."

"When will you leave?"

"As soon as possible," Lothíriel sighed. "There is no time to waste."

"No," the Elf agreed. She walked over to the princess and took her arm. "But one good nights' rest will not be a waste. You cannot begin a journey already weary."

As she had feared — but expected — Lothíriel slept well, throughout the rest of the day. The first time in years she had enjoyed uninterrupted rest. She hadn't been woken by screams, or whimpers of fear. She dreamt only once, just before she woke — a flash of blue and gold.

When she opened her eyes, though, all there was was the warm bed she lay on, the soft green of the leaf canopy above her head. It was never truly dark here, but judging from the deep golden hue of the light, it was evening. Running a hand absently through her dark hair, she sat up and thought about the preparations she needed to make before she left tomorrow.

Starflame needed to be groomed and fed. She didn't know how long she would have to ride before they reached a stopping point, but she was certain that to tarry would only bring trouble. Thankfully she exercised her horse everyday, so a full days' gallop should not be a problem for him.

Getting up, she made her way down to the stable from the little tree house she and her mother had shared. She didn't often descend onto the forest floor — few did here. When everything was contained in the trees there really was no need. The horses, however, couldn't be up here, so the stables were in the very centre of Lòrien. No Orc would dare come into the centre of Celeborn and Galadriel's realm, though they did hover around the edges from time to time. As they had last night, she remembered, her lip curling in revulsion. She had heard their heavy footsteps, their evil curses.

As she arrived that the stables, the stable master greeted her with a solemn nod, and put a hand on her forearm as she went past. "I am sorry," he said gravely.

She nodded. "Diola lle." _Word travels fast_.

Moving forward, she saw Starflame's black head poking out over the bottom half of his stall. A contrast to the tranquil-natured Elven horses around him, her stallion whinnied when he saw her. The sound was painfully loud in the stables.

"Starflame!" she scolded. Pulling open the stall door, she moved inside, closing it behind her. "Quiet!"

Moving to the back of the stall, she picked up his grooming brushes and began. It helped soothe her, the rhythmic motions sorting her mind into the same smooth strokes. Beginning at his shoulders, along his back to his hind quarters, she drew the brush back. And again. And again. Calm. Gentle. Peaceful. Utterly mundane. She hummed as she did it; an old lullaby that had been around for centuries, and probably would be for centuries more.

Starflame had been her mother's horse, gifted to her by the King of Rohan when they had first passed through his realm to Lòrien. Mirima had never really had cause to ride, so by default the stallion had become Lothíriel's. She was fond of him — he was strong, fiery and unpredictable, but she knew she was a capable rider, and could more than handle him. She found commands in Elvish far more effective than those in Westron. She suspected it was because the Elves had an understanding of all creatures.

Two voices caught her attention; a familiar male voice she couldn't quite place place conversing with the stable master. She recognised the accent of Rivendell, and then the stable doors creaked open. Curious, she left the grooming and looked outside, smiling as she recognised him. Remembering her manners, she quickly schooled her expression and gave a low curtsy.

"My lord."

He bowed. "My lady." He straightened, smiled. "It is good to see you again."

"And you," she smiled.

He moved forward, expression sombre. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances."

"Yes," she agreed, glancing down once. "How are you, Aragorn?"

"I … I thought I was prepared," he said, "but now that Mithrandir is gone I find myself wondering if I am capable of leading this fellowship." It was his turn to look down.

Lothíriel stepped closer, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You are."

He smiled. "Thank you, Lothíriel." Coming to what he had sought her out for, he drew some folded parchment from within his tunic. "I have a letter for you, from Arwen."

She took it with a smile, warmth filling her chest. "How is she?"

"Well," he replied, then paused. "Worried."

She nodded. "We all of us are," she replied, glancing up from opening the letter. She broke the seal of Imladris with a fingernail, then unfolded the parchment. She read through the first few lines quickly. "She says I am to make you remember you are not as young as you once were," she laughed.

Though Aragorn was much older than she, it was difficult to remember that he was far younger than Arwen. Whereas the Elf had a youthfulness of spirit, Lothíriel had often reflected that Aragorn didn't. He already carried the responsibility of those generations before him, as well as those to come. Running from his destiny had not worked — Aragorn may not share the feeling, but Lothíriel knew that one day (if they all survived the coming war), she would be attending his coronation.

Returning her gaze to the letter, Lothíriel's smile continued to grow. "Apparently you need your rest."

Aragron's mouth lifted in a small smile, but it disappeared quickly. Lothíriel offered a comforting smile. "She loves you."

Any trace of levity was completely gone from his expression now. "I know."

"And you should not regret that," she insisted, this time with a touch of heat in her tone. Knowing Aragorn he had probably tried to convince Arwen not to wait for him before the party left Rivendell. She'd no doubt that Arwen would refuse, but even him asking her would have hurt her friend.

"No," he sighed, looking away briefly before the smile came back. "No, even when I try to tell myself I should, I always find my argument … unconvincing."

Lothíriel smiled and folded the letter, putting inside her tunic with the intent to read it later. When she looked up, his expression was once more sombre. "I am sorry about your mother," he said quietly.

"Thank you," she replied quickly. "She was in pain, so …"

Clearing her throat, she headed over to Starflame's tack, running her hands over the saddle and bridle to make sure the leather was smooth and unbroken. Aragorn seemed surprised. "You are leaving so soon?"

"Yes," she said, "I am needed elsewhere. I will be gone by the time you rise on the morrow." She smiled. "We will meet again."

He nodded, saying half in jest, "Hopefully not on the battlefield."

"No," she agreed. "Now go! You should be resting," she added with a grin.

He offered his arm. "Farewell, Lothíriel."

She took it, clasping his forearm while he did the same. "And you."

He turned to leave, and Lothíriel bit her lip suddenly, remembering something. But could she tell him — _should _she? Taking a deep breath, she made her decision. "Aragorn?"

He turned back with a raised eyebrow at her worried tone. "I … Watch out for Boromir," she finally said.

Aragorn frowned. "You mean over him?"

"No," she shook her head, "I mean for him. There's something … something wrong about him. Whatever my uncle's motives for sending him on this quest … I do not think they were as noble as yours. And Boromir has always been so loyal to his father," she finished.

There was a silence, and they stared at one another for a moment. Lothíriel's guilt did not cease twisting her stomach. Boromir was family, and she had effectively betrayed him. But had she not told Aragorn … she had no idea what might happen. All she knew was that her cousin could no longer be trusted.

Finally Aragorn nodded in acknowledgment, looking as though he knew how difficult that decision had been. Not wishing to spend another moment under that sympathetic gaze, Lothíriel ducked back inside the stall, finishing the checks necessary before she was ready to depart. When everything was ready, Aragorn was gone.

Lothíriel sighed, hoping she had done the right thing. Deciding that endless worrying would do her no good, she decided to find some oats for Starflame. He tucked into them contentedly as Lothíriel stroked down his neck. "Rest well, mellonamin. We have a long journey ahead of us once the sun rises."

Much though she wanted to set off as soon as possible, it would be a stupid move to depart at night. Though the Orcs had moved on, there was always the chance that they still prowled the valley around the Golden Wood. Thankfully she, at least, was unlikely to attract the attention of anyone more powerful than Orcs. A lone rider was far more discrete than a large party of many different races was likely to be, and Lothíriel knew that Lady Galadriel would be doing … _something_ that would hopefully shield her from Saruman's perception.

Still, her resolution to leave quickly was shaken the next morning. Now that it had actually come to leaving …

"Here."

She took the bundle that Galadriel handed her with an expression of curiosity. "What is it?"

"Healing supplies," the Lady told her. "Herbs, linen and other such items. I wish you will not have occasion to use it, but I am certain it will be necessary."

"Thank you." Turning, the princess stowed the bundle in a saddlebag before turning back to the Lady.

"Go with my blessings, child."

Lothíriel nodded once. She wondered how badly she would miss this place. Too much, she suspected, yet at the same time she knew she'd never really belonged. There was too much world to see out there, and too little time to see it in. As wonderful and beautiful as all the Elves were, it was something they did not understand.

"Thank you, my lady," she said, bowing slightly. "For everything you have done for me, and everything you did for my mother."

Her thanks were acknowledged by a graceful bow of the head. "The Valar will watch over you," she said. "Follow your mother's vision."

Lothíriel nodded, her thoughts returning to that. Her mother's vision had seen her on stone walls, fighting and saving the lives of men and kings. That could mean only one place, since her own home had a king no longer. Rohan. She intended to ride to Edoras and give her mother's warning to Théoden King.

But that was the future, and she would not get lost there. Forcing her thoughts back to the present, she returned her gaze to Galadriel. "I will," she iterated firmly.

The lady touched her cheek warmly. "If you need me, I shall aid you."

Feeling her heart swell with gratitude, the princess smiled. "I know."

Lady Galadriel took her hand away, and the smile faded from her expression, replaced by grave seriousness. Lothíriel took that as her cue to mount Starflame, taking the reins in hand.

"Ride with all haste."

She nodded shortly, turning the stallion around to face the edges of the Golden Wood, to the bright harshness that lay beyond it. The lands soon to be lit with the fires of war. "Farewell, my lady," she said, almost absently.

"Namaarie."

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**A/N: Review please! **


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! **

**Chapter Two**

There came a time, Éomer had decided, when even horselords became tired of riding. Namely when one had been in the saddle since dawn, and it had rained heavily all day. The clothes under his armour were chafing against his wet skin, and he knew Firefoot was scarcely more comfortable. Still, there were close to Théodred's camp by now.

Éomer was in two minds about being called to the Westmark; he knew full well his éored would arrive to find Thoédred had no need whatsoever for reinforcements, while his own land was under siege by Orcs and Dundelings. Given the choice, Éomer would have been the one to request the Second Marshal send help to him. But it was not his choice. Théoden King had issued orders that he and a full half of his éored were to ride west, to the fords of Isen. And then, of course, dozens of villages in the Eastfold would be attacked and Éomer would be accused of neglecting his duty.

His hands clenched tightly around the reins, knuckles white with unexpressed rage. It was common knowledge amongst almost every warrior that while the King may still be on the throne, he was no longer directing the rule of the Mark. That … snake of worm was, dripping poison into the ear of his uncle. He may as well be burning the Mark to the ground himself. And both Éomer and Théodred, the two men most likely to be able to remove him from the King's side, were kept far from Edoras at all times.

Still, there was an opportunity here. It had been many months — almost a full year — since he had seen or spoken to Théodred. In missives they were very careful not to say too much, especially not if they were unsure of the messenger. While their letters were regular, they never actually _said _anything. This was a chance to exchange news, rumours. Plans, with any luck at all. There had to be something they could do. And for all Éomer knew, it could be true. Théodred could need help.

When they arrived, though, it was clear he did not. As they dismounted, Éomer exchanged a brief glance with Walda, one of his men. Éothain he had left in charge of the remainder of his éored. From the set of Walda's jaw, he was no more happy with the situation than Éomer was.

The camp had been set up around a small town. As with every village in Rohan, there were well equipped and well maintained stables — there was not nearly enough room room in the town for the men and their horses, of course, but the men were happy enough to sleep under canvas while their mounts were better protected from the elements. What was a horselord without a horse, after all?

Leading Firefoot inside, he stabled him next to a handsome black, making sure his horse had fresh hay and water. That done, Éomer turned his attention to the other horse. Blacks were rare in the Mark now; when the minions of Mordor had come looking for such horses, Théoden had, of course, refused and banished them from his realm. It did not stop almost all of the blacks being stolen overnight. He wondered where this stallion came from. It was a magnificent animal. Definitely bred in the Mark.

"Éomer, Théodred is waiting," Walda reminded him.

Turning from the black, Éomer left the stables with a pat to Firefoot's neck.

When he entered the command tent, Théodred stood and embraced his cousin. "How are you?" he asked.

Éomer let go. "Having the feeling that my time could be better spent elsewhere."

Théodred nodded, also pulling away. "You were ordered here, then?"

"By Uncle."

Théodred dismissed the men he had been talking to, gesturing for Éomer to sit. "Meaning Wormtongue," he sighed.

"You know where this is heading," Éomer replied. "Grima on the throne. Or Saruman."

"Wormtongue would not dare go that far," his cousin frowned.

"No? How much political power have we, Théodred, the two of us? Realistically."

"Almost nothing," Théodred agreed. "But the people will only take so much. The men are already at breaking point."

"Which leaves us where?" Éomer asked. "You launching a coup against your own father?"

Théodred was silent for a long moment. "Would you be with me?"

Éomer's mouth fell open. Before he could reply, a voice sounded from outside. A voice he certainly did not expect to find in the camp of an éored. "Théodred, I think can smell —"

It was quickly joined by a person he did not expect. "Oh."

The first thing that crossed his mind was that an Elf-maiden was walking inside the tent. Her skin was flawless — but not pale — rather coloured with a golden tan. Her hair was dark, and long and braided — but not midnight black — but with an almost red hue to it. Wide, startled eyes fixed on him — but not the cool grey or blue he'd always heard of the _elleth_ possessing — instead the warm green of the plains of the Mark.

Her voice, now, though … her voice was exactly as an Elf's should be. Low. Smooth. Sweet and clear as spring water. "Forgive me, I did not know you had company."

Théodred gave an easy smile — which broadened into a grin when he noticed the expression on his cousin's face — and made the introductions. "Lothíriel, this is Éomer, Marshal of the Eastmark and my cousin."

The woman inclined her head and offered a small smile — which Éomer found worryingly disarming. The smile on the prince's face grew a little more smug. "Éomer, Lady Lothíriel is from —" He broke off with a small frown and looked at her. "Where are in Gondor are you from, originally?"

"Dol Amroth," she answered promptly, still looking at the younger man. "Though I have spent recent years in Lothlórien."

Éomer's wonder turned to suspicion, and he frowned. "Dwimordene?" He shifted slightly, the polite expression and tone almost completely gone now. "How did you end up here?"

Her expression didn't flicker. "I was on my way to Edoras when I came upon Prince Théodred's éored —"

"— fighting Orcs," Théodred put in.

"— and one Orc is one too many as far as I am concerned," she continued. "So I stopped to see what I could do," she shrugged.

Make that wonder to suspicion to scorn. "And what could you do?" She may not be dressed like a woman, but she was still decidedly female. She wore buckskin leggings, slightly muddy boots and a dark blue tunic embroidered with silver thread into a symbol he did not recognise. It looked like a ship and a swan. Underneath it she wore a dull mail shirt and some kind of armoured skirt made of segmented metal plates. The gauntlets strapped to her arms and the twin swords at her waist completed her attire. He felt his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. A woman — and dressed for war?

"Take out more of the scum than anyone else," Théodred chuckled. He sobered and looked more seriously at Lothíriel. "What is it you wanted to tell me, Lothíriel?"

"I smell Orc," she said, crossing her arms.

Both men stood. "Where? How many?"

She shook her head in a calming fashion. "Half a league away, and no more than two dozen." Her lip curled in a disgusted sneer. "Creeping back to Isengard," she spat.

Théodred issued his orders to Lothíriel. "Go to Beorn, tell him to take twenty men and decimate them." She nodded with a tiny grin of what looked to Éomer like excitement, inclined her head to both of them and strode from the tent. Théodred sighed at the frown on Éomer's face. "Say it, cousin."

"Very well, I will. A woman? Théodred, you cannot be serious! Bed her when you get to a town if you wish, but to have her here …" At best she'd be a distraction to Théodred, at worst a distraction to all his men too. "I thought you had more sense than that." At the silence that followed, Éomer's frown deepened as he thought harder about Lothíriel's dress and smile. "Do not tell me you let her ride with you!" he exclaimed.

Théodred did not look at all ashamed of himself. "She is a brilliant fighter, Éomer. A better rider than most of my men."

"She's a woman," he replied flatly.

"Her tracking skills are superb."

Éomer was trying his best not to be annoyed. His cousin did not seem to be understanding his point. "She's a woman, Théodred," he repeated, voice peaking.

"So is Éowyn, and she could hold her own against Orcs if she had to. And more besides," he added with a smile. "Do you not agree?"

"Leave my sister out of this," he growled.

"Very well, if you will accept that it is possible I have not made a mistake and that she can fight?"

Éomer glowered silently at him.

Théodred did not look at all perturbed, and merely got up, stretching his arms. At the flap to the tent, he paused with a slight knowing grin. "And just so you know — I am not bedding her. She is who she says she is, Éomer. A noblewoman of Gondor is not someone you bed before marrying her — and no, I have no plans to do that." Éomer frowned again, and was about to say something, but Théodred continued before he got the opportunity. "She's riding with us until the next time we return to Edoras, and she can give her message to Father. Now, how go things in Aldburg?"

Recognising that there were no more verbal points to be scored, Éomer began describing the state of the Eastmark. The cousins relaxed little; even though they were alone, in these times even walls had ears. Despite the danger, Éomer could not help asking after his sister. Éowyn was alone in Edoras, with friends, but none who may help her. And the idea of Grima having access to her night and day was almost more than he could bear. Éowyn would kill him before she let him touch her, Éomer knew — or at least that was what she would have done. Now he was concerned that she might kill herself instead.

"She is well, as far as I know," Théodred sighed. "But truthfully … anything we may do would be for her sake as well as the rest of the Riddermark."

Éomer sighed, running a hand roughly over his face. "I feel so helpless."

From outside came the sound of galloping horses, slowing and then stopping. A few moments later, the tent flap opened again, and Lothíriel stepped through.

"All well?"

She nodded, saying breathlessly, "A few minor scrapes and cuts. I'll need to treat two or three prevent poisoning, but there will be no lasting damage."

"Well done," Théodred smiled.

"Excuse me." She ducked out of the tent, her footsteps quickly fading.

Théodred looked at Éomer, an eyebrow raised in triumph. "I'm not convinced," Éomer said flatly. "Though at least a healer seems a more suitable occupation for a woman."

"She's very skilled at that too," Théodred said lightly.

"Elvish witchcraft."

The heir to the throne laughed. "There is no pleasing you, is there, cousin? She fights, she is not womanly —"

"She hardly _looks _like a woman, even you must admit that," Éomer interrupted. "Her face is pleasing enough, to be sure, but in that armour she could be any dirty soldier — albeit an Elvish one — in the Mark." There had been no evidence of hips, or breasts or anything that hinted at femininity underneath all that armour.

Théodred raised an eyebrow that indicated Éomer should be understanding something he clearly was not. "That _is _rather the point, Éomer. You know what Orcs can do to a man — can you imagine —"

"What they would do to a woman …" Éomer finished softly. He shuddered in disgust. Suddenly the idea of Lothíriel disguising herself as a man seemed like an intelligent idea. If there were even the slightest hint she was a woman she'd be raped, torn apart, her body used and degraded even after death had finally been merciful. He suppressed a shudder.

Pushing that thought aside, he asked when she was going to Edoras — he had letters to Éowyn that needed to be sent, and it was unlikely he would have an opportunity to get them to her any other way. "Would she take them to Éowyn for me?"

Théodred nodded. "I don't see why not."

The letters were still in the saddlebag, so Éomer left his cousin to go to the stables. He found Lothíriel there already. He watcher her in surprise. She was in the same stall as the black stallion he'd been admiring earlier. This was her horse? It dwarfed her badly; Éomer could not believe she would control such an animal. Either this woman was naïve, or she was supremely arrogant.

"Where did I put it?" she muttered, rooting around in a saddlebag. "Eru only knows what I'm supposed to do with —"

"What are you looking for?" he asked loudly, perhaps hoping to startle her and confirm his suspicions that no woman should be anywhere near an éored.

She didn't start, and only answered him over her shoulder. "Athelas_._"

"What?" he frowned.

"Kingsfoil," she explained. "It's a rather useful plant … an anti-toxin. Ah!" she exclaimed, pulling out a leather pouch. As she walked around the horse, he nipped at her sleeve, issuing a low whinny in his throat. Lothíriel rolled her eyes and reached into a second saddlebag for an apple. "So greedy." She fed it to him. "There, satisfied?"

Éomer cocked an eyebrow. "He is your horse?"

"Yes," she nodded curtly. "Is there any need to sound so surprised?"

He scoffed. "I've never met a woman yet who could handle a stallion of this size."

"Perhaps you've been looking outside of the Riddermark," she remarked. "I cannot believe there are none."

He folded his arms, ire rising at the cheek of this woman. How long had she been here, to think she had such knowledge? "I think I know more of my own country than you do."

"I've had a good education," she retorted coolly.

Failing to think of anything else to say to this infuriating woman, Éomer found himself closer to her than he remembered being. Her horse nuzzled at his hand, then shoved it away when he realised the man had no more treats to give him. "What is his name? Glutton?"

Her mouth quirked momentarily into a smile. "His name is Starflame." She looked over at Firefoot. "Yours, I assume, is the grey?"

"How can you tell?" he asked.

She smirked, walking over to his stallion. Normally wary of strangers, Éomer watched as Firefoot completely betrayed him; nuzzling his nose into her palm gently. She looked him over. "Strong, unpredictable," she said, casting a sideways look at Éomer as she continued. "Needing a firm hand and I'd imagine none-too-bright."

He grabbed her forearm, yanked her over to him. Rather than her eyes widening in fear, however, they remained sardonically half-lidded. He had the annoying impression she was _allowing _him to drag her. "You're bold, my lady, to insult a man you do not know."

She straightened, raising her chin and continuing to stare him straight in the eye. "As are you — to assume you are fully aware of the capabilities of a woman you do not know."

He bent forward, eyes narrowed. "I know enough of women to know that you do not belong here. Get out."

She pulled her arm from his grasp, for the first time allowing some kind of hot emotion to show through. Her eyes narrowed as she said, "I have fought for _weeks_ to be accepted as part of this éored, to prove myself to the men here, I will not have you simply _saunter _in and destroy all the trust I have built —"

He leaned forward, sure that she'd take a step back, simply from his larger bulk. To his surprise and immediate irritation, the damn woman took a step forward herself! "You cannot declare yourself a member of the Rohirrim!" he told her, incredulous that she could even consider it. "You are a foreign woman who for some reason unfathomable to me, Théodred has allowed to stay here when by all rights he should have taken you to the nearest town and left you there until an escort could be arranged to take you to Edoras!"

"I have no need of an escort!" she hissed. "If I decide to ride to Meduseld then I will — alone!"

"Then why are you here?!" he demanded.

"Because I can help here!" she returned. "And if that is all, I have wounded to tend to." She threw him another contemptuous glance and left.

Éomer stared after her in shock.

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**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! **


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: Thank you to everyone for their reviews, and a Happy New Year to all :) **

**Chapter Three**

Lothíriel had not stopped cursing herself for a solid month. She was not so arrogant as to believe that her fighting skills alone would have saved Théodred's life, but she could not help the suspicion that had she been there, had she arrived in _time_, perhaps… But it was too late for 'perhaps'. Théodred was dead, and though she wished with all her heart it was not the truth, Lothíriel had no choice but to accept it. She still had a duty to her mother's vision to fulfil, but now she had another, to her fallen friend. She had to journey to Edoras and tell Théoden King that his son was dead.

She had been running low on certain medicinal herbs in her healing supplies, and had ridden out to find more. In her quest to find more yarrow and feverfew, Lothíriel had ridden further away from the camp than she'd meant to — too far to hear the clash of swords and cries of dying men. When she returned to the Fords of Isen, it had been too late to help. It had been too late to do anything except defend the bodies o her allies. No more pomp had been given to Théodred's burial than had any of his men. It was not something he would have wanted, she understood, though it was at odds with her upbringing. Naturally princes were to be given more honour than the common man, but in the Mark it was not so. And it was something, Lothíriel now realised, that was utterly right. There was no question that Gondor was more refined as a nation, but it was unnecessary refinement. It had clouded what was truly important.

She wondered what Denethor's reaction would be to having his niece tell him he could learn much from his less elegant neighbour.

Lothíriel had found the remaining survivors — a mere dozen soldiers — still defending Théodred's body. Grimbold led them. They were facing creatures Lothíriel had imagined only in her nightmares. Not Orcs, but not Men either, or goblins, or… Some horrific monstrosities somewhere in between the two. As tall and strong — or stronger — than the Rohirrim, but with skin like boiled leather, fangs and talons, and with the bloodthirst of Orcs. Lothíriel had no time to pause or to feel fear. The rush and furor of battle took over her senses, and she managed to fight her way through to her allies. Starflame was a warhorse, and cut through the foul creatures with the same ruthlessness his mistress did with her blade.

When they reached the tiny islet in the middle of the river, Lothíriel joined Grimbold and his men, dismounting as they had. She was not fighting for long before the situation became obvious: they were going to die. There was little or no help for them hither, and these _things _were more powerful than anything she had ever encountered before. She sustained several injuries, though none severe. She had no time to worry if the weapons of the monsters were poisoned or not, because every man around her was being cut down. They all died heroic deaths; that much was for certain. But they still died.

Finally only she and Grimbold were left, facing three gigantic Orcs.

And then suddenly she woke up. She realised that there were beats in her ears that weren't coming from her thundering heart. That there were cries of Men that weren't death throes. That they had help.

Then she remembered that the Orc in front of her was still armed and still wanting to kill her. Or not, she noted with alarm. The thing seemed to have realised, unlike its fellows, that she was a woman. And there was a new light in those malicious yellow eyes that caused a frission of fear to shoot up her spine. The Valar were still looking kindly on her though, it seemed — the Orc was not smart enough to realise that it should have kept its sword up as it reached blindly for her. Lothíriel aimed for it's neck, and struck true. Then a low growl sounded from behind her, and suddenly she was in the grip of another Orc.

Then it let go with the point of a sword pushing through its chest. When it collapsed, Lothíriel was staring into the stunned face of an unfamiliar Rohir. "You- You are a woman!"

"Peace, Elfhelm," came Grimbold's voice. "Théodred knew-"

"Théodred!" she gasped, running to where his body lay and kneeling by it. If there was a chance, if there was even the ghost of a chance- "Théodred, can you hear me? If you can, open your eyes!"

Grimbold touched her shoulder. "He's dead, Lothíriel. We have to bury him, we have to-"

He was cut off as Théodred stirred, muttering something. Lothíriel grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. "Théodred!"

He opened his eyes. They were unfocused and cloudy with pain. While he might not be dead, he would not last long before being called to the halls of his fathers. "…Loth…Grimbold…"

"We are here, Théodred," Grimbold said, getting to his knees beside his prince. "Don't speak; you must conserve your strength."

The corners of his mouth pulled upward slightly. "A little…too late for that, I think…min frĕond."

Grimbold's face, ravaged by fatigue a few moments ago, was now ravaged with grief. "We will bear you to your father," he promised. "To Edoras."

"No!" Théodred insisted, his voice breathless but carrying the authority of an order. "Let me lie here…to keep the Ford until…Éomer comes."

It was the last of his strength; a few seconds after that, the heir to the throne of the Mark was dead. Grimbold let out one dry sob — Lothíriel leaned back onto her heels and closed her eyes. Another person she loved dead. Her mother, now her friend. How many others? And until Éomer came? The Marshall of the Eastmark would be a hundred Leagues from here by now. How could he be coming?

Moving forward, she brushed Théodred's eyes closed and folded his arms across his chest. Then she stood, joining Elfhelm and Grimbold. "I must send a rider to Edoras," Elfhelm said. "The king has to know."

"I will go," Lothíriel said immediately. "I have a message to deliver to Théoden King. It should have been given long before now. I have tarried too long." She swallowed, looking down at Théodred. Had she not delayed, then perhaps even this could have been prevented. She pushed that thought aside. Self-doubt and recrimination would do her no good if she was to keep her head during this war.

Elfhelm frowned at her before Grimbold could agree. "Who are you? You're certainly no member of the Rohirrim - are you…an Elf?"

"No," she answered, "though that bloodis in my veins. I come from Dol Amroth. Gondor." She looked down at the dead monsters that surrounded them. "What _are _these creatures? They stink like Orcs but with something even fouler, though it seems impossible."

Elfhelm kicked one of the beasts over. "And bearing the mark of the White Hand," he growled.

Lothíriel cursed. _Saruman._ With Mithrandir gone, and Saruman against them… She remembered asking Boromir. What hope did they have? She gripped Grimbold's forearm. "I have to go. I have tarried too long already."

He nodded. "Ride, Lothíriel. And we will meet again in Edoras."

"I pray so," she nodded.

She'd mounted Starflame and ridden away that red dawn. And now here she was, stuck rotting in a dark and damp cell inside Edoras. Damn Rohirrim!

She sighed and shifted on the wooden bench she was sat on. No, that wasn't fair. She knew many of the Rohirrim, and to a one they were all good men. All of them. _How _it was that Grima was born of the same blood as the noble people she'd known, the princess had no idea. It did not seem possible that a lecherous, clammy, sneaky, manipulative, _evil_-

Letting out a growl, she stood up and paced around the cell once again, for what was the millionth time that day. "I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed," she mimicked, voice scathing. "_Nadorhuan_!"

* * *

**Three Weeks Prior**

"I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, my lady," the doorwarden said, his expression apologetic even if his words were not.

"So armed?" she echoed. "How much damage may one woman do in the house of the king of Rohan?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "That may be so. But I take my orders from Grima, the king's counsellor."

Lothíriel raised an eyebrow. "And not from the king?"

A dark expression crossed his face, then his outstretched hand became a little more insistent. Lothíriel judged it. Either she gave her swords and bow up, and delivered her mother's warning to Théoden King, or she did not, and was turned away. And the Mark could burn, and she could betray a dead friend, and what he had died for.

Lothíriel handed over all but one of her weapons. The doors were opened, and she moved inside. It was almost totally dark inside, only a few of the torches lit, one fire crackling in the centre of the hall. There were only two beings she saw in light - and it was the cold light of a winter dawn. One was a woman in a white gown, with her pale blonde hair making her look like a drowned person. Lothíriel did not recognise her.

The other was pale in the way the underside of a slug was pale. Pasty. Wet, somehow. The princess immediately wanted to put him back under whatever rock he had crawled from. It took her eyes a few moments in the gloom to find Théoden King at all, and when she did, she was still unsure as to exactly what she was looking at. Surely that could not be the king! He was _old_, hunched over and blind. This could not be the lively, strong, clever man she remembered from passing through Rohan those years ago. What in Middle Earth…?

It was not until she drew much closer that he saw her. She stopped about fifteen feet away from the dais upon which the throne sat. "Wéstu hai, Théoden King."

He shifted, raised a wizened hand in greeting to her. "My…greetings to you as well, Lady Lothíriel."

Lothíriel hid the frown that crossed her face. Théoden was well aware of her rank, and the proper way to address her would be as 'Your Highness' — not doing so seemed rather rude. And she did not remember him being rude, in fact she remembered him being kind and familiar. Almost treating her as much a niece as he did Éowyn. And where _was _Éowyn?

She knew that to delay would only cause more pain, so she stepped forward again. "My lord, I am truly sorry to be the bearer of such terrible news, but-"

"We already know that the king's beloved son has been brutally murdered, my lady." Grima — she assumed it was he — had a voice at least as damp and cloying as his appearance was. "Did you come simply to bring this ill news?"

She blinked. Though his words were grave, his tone was like oil. Perfectly smooth. No grief, no surprise, and more importantly, no sympathy for his mourning lord. "No, I did not," she replied somewhat irritably. Ignoring Grima, she spoke to the king. His dull blue eyes reflected nothing back. He seemed not to be alive at all. "My lord, you know who I am. You know who my mother was-"

"Was?" Grima interrupted softly. "Then the oracle is dead?"

"Yes," Lothíriel answered shortly. _Oracle_? To ignore _her _title was bad enough, but to ignore that of her _mother_? She had been wife of the prince of Dol Amroth, sister to the Steward of Gondor, her mama- "She passed away a few weeks ago."

He raised an eyebrow. "Then how is it you have taken so long to travel here?" he asked silkily. "It is not so far from Dwimordene, after all."

"No," she agreed, "but whilst on my way, by happy accident I met with Prince Théodred's éored. My skills proved of some use."

The other eyebrow joined the first. "Your skills," he repeated.

Feeling uncomfortable without knowing why, Lothíriel automatically defended herself. "Yes, I was trained by the Elves during my time in Lothlòrien."

"Ah, I see." He moved, leaning toward Théoden, apparently unaware of the acuteness of Lothíriel's hearing. "She is a courtesan, my lord, nothing more. Trained by the Elves."

"How _dare _you?" Lothíriel snarled. "I am of the noble class of Gondor, my father is ruler of Dol Amroth — I am no whore! Who are you to insult me so?!"

Oblivious to the danger he was now in, Grima left the king's side and slithered toward her. "Insult you? Then you deny you enjoyed any kind of relationship with the king's son?"

"Yes," she replied emphatically. "And before I leave here, I have a message to deliver to the king, from my mother, who had the gift of Foresight. And I will deliver it _to the king_."

"I speak for the king," he told her. "But please, my lady, do not feel you must leave so soon. I would be more than happy to find you a warm bed, and would be at your _personal_ service for however many nights you _desire _to spend here."

Lothíriel could not hide her revulsion this time; she had been living amongst soldiers for the past two moons — talk of women and sexual innuendoes were nothing new to her now, but those men had been her comrades, her friends. _This _man was… The princess shuddered and moved away, suddenly terrified. "I have no wish whatsoever to spend a moment longer than necessary here," she retorted scathingly. "But because of the love I bear for this nation and her people, I tell you this now. Rohan will be attacked, by a force larger than any known before. And from what I have seen, and the creatures responsible for Théodred's death-"

"Orcs have always plagued the Mark," Grima interrupted. "This is not news, and perhaps the prince became careless. It would not be the first time a Marshal has done so. Éomund, for example-"

Whoever 'Éomund' may have been, the princess was certain he did not deserve insults from a man most likely not fit to lick his boots. But Grima seemed to be deliberately preventing her from telling the king that his neighbour was now a deadly enemy. Lothíriel was in no way inclined to allow him to do so.

"These are no ordinary Orcs!" she interrupted hotly. "These a disgusting amalgamations of Orcs and…_Men_ — born of dark magic, at Saruman's hand!"

Grima actually _laughed _at her. "And now you accuse one of our dearest friends and allies of treason! The White Wizard has ever guarded the interests of this nation — with far more diligence than Gondor has!"

"They bore the White Hand! No other in Middle Earth uses that badge!" Lothíriel argued. "Unless you heed my warning-"

"And the kingdom of Rohan has no need to heed the words of charlatans and false profits," he added, sneering openly at her and now only a few inches away. He laid a hand on her shoulder. "I understand that seeing truth in the falsehoods of a loved one must be-"

Any pretence of diplomacy or courtliness was lost in the surge of anger that overpowered her senses. _False prophets?!_ This slime had no idea of how her mother had suffered for decades, how her entire family had pained with her-! Quicker than lightning, she pulled out the only weapon she had on her person — a dagger she kept in the lining between tunic and armour, and which she never let go of. She lunged forward, and pressed it, hard, to Grima's throat. A thin line of red began to trickle down his throat and toward the collar of his heavy robes. "Now you go too far!" she hissed, blind fury in her voice.

"Lothíriel, no!" a female voice gasped.

She frowned at the strange woman, then gasped in shock. That strange, pale and miserable woman was not someone she did not know. It was Éowyn. She had not recognised her because she had no vitality in her whatsoever. Even now, she only looked _terrified_.

Lothíriel's staring at Éowyn cost her; she was seized by several of Grima's men and dragged away.

* * *

Breaking the peace of the king's hall had landed her in the dungeons — probably exactly what, she reflected, Grima had intended. She could not complain that she was being mistreated now that she was here — she had regular meals, and at least there were no rats. But that did not help to dilute the injustice of it.

She'd been formulating a plan to escape, but though she had an advantage because of her Elven senses, she'd not been able to put anything into action. She knew what the problem was — from the expressions of the men who brought her food, they no more liked this than she did. And any escape would have to involve her harming them, at least in some small way. And even then, she thought mournfully, she would have to cross the entire city in order to get to the stables. Starflame she had no fear for — it would be an anathema to any Rohirric warrior to harm a horse.

Still, her situation was becoming desperate. She needed to do something, and soon.

It seemed that today, though, the Valar were not smiling upon her. The door opened when she did not expect it to, which was good. However, it was not her liberator. It was another prisoner. She wondered if all the cells in Rohan were so full of Grima's enemies. It seemed probable.

The man could not see her face well in the darkness, but she could see his. And when she recognised his features, her mouth fell open.

* * *

Éomer had never been so filled with rage in his entire life. He had expected to be held responsible for Théodred's death once informed of it, but to then be accused of _warmongering _and treachery himself?! It was no wonder he had broken the peace in the Golden Hall.

Then a voice spoke in the darkness. "Well, I suppose throwing your own nephew in gaol is taking discourtesy to a new level."

He squinted ineffectively, trying to work out if his ears were telling the truth. "Lady Lothíriel?"

"Lord Éomer," she confirmed.

Shocked, he frowned. Why in Middle Earth would his uncle have put the young noblewoman in the dungeons? "What in the name of Béma are you doing down here?"

"Théoden King's advisor-"

"Wormtongue?"

"I am unsure. I was told his name was Grima."

He scowled. "It is Grima. Though Wormtongue has truth enough."

He just about saw her nod. "Well when I arrived…three weeks ago now, I was shown into the Golden Hall — once all my weapons had been removed – and went to give my message to your uncle…" She trailed off, frowning. If no one else could give her an answer, surely Éomer could. "Forgive me, but what has happened to him? I do not remember him being more than seventy, and even then he was strong, but now-"

"It is the influence of Wormtongue," Éomer inserted. "He is a minion of Saruman, and between them they have poisoned the mind of the King."

Lothíriel sighed. "I feared it was so," she said, shaking her head. "A wizard's enchantment… I do not think even Lady Galadriel would be able to lift it. Her magic is more subtle. Perhaps if Mithrandir had not fallen…" she lamented.

"Who?"

"Mithrandir," she repeated, then realised. "Oh. Gandalf."

"He is dead?" he asked.

She nodded sadly. "Fallen in Moria."

He was silent for a moment. "We truly are alone."

"I would not give you false comfort by telling you Gondor will send aid. The truth is that Sauron masses his armies against us." She chewed on her bottom lip, unable to stop the worry from surfacing. It would more than naïve to believe that there would be no battle for Gondor, and her father and brothers would go to risk their lives. Still, there was no time to dwell on what would happen in Gondor — she was in Rohan now, and Rohan was in more immediate trouble than Gondor. "The kingdoms of men are trapped between Mordor and Isengard." There was a pause as she realised she hadn't answered his question. "In answer to your original query, I arrived to find news of Théodred's death had beaten me here."

She made out the frown in his face. "What? How?"

Wincing slightly in anticipation of his reaction, she told him. "From his reaction…my suspicions rest with Wormtongue."

There was a pause of about three seconds, then so quickly she blinked in surprise, Éomer stood and stormed to the door. "I'm going to kill him."

Her words stopped him — the surprise his this time. "I tried."

He chuckled in utter shock. "Why?"

The memory of it was still enough to make her grit her teeth. "He implied that I'd been Théodred's whore and that I somehow sought to profit from his death, insulted my late mother. And after what I saw he'd already done to Éowyn…"

Éomer grabbed both her wrists. She hoped he had not mistaken them for Wormtongue's neck, since he was already squeezing them hard enough to bruise. "What has he done to her?!"

She shook her head quickly, trying not to grimace in pain. "I do not believe he has touched her, Éomer." He let go, and she rubbed her wrists surreptitiously. "But he has broken her spirit. There was despair in her eyes that was not there the last time I was in Rohan," she said.

Éomer leant back. "On what grounds did he have you put here?"

"I… I broke the peace of the King's hall," she said reluctantly. Even though she'd been perfectly justified in her actions, the thought of what her father would say was still slightly mortifying.

"How?" he asked curiously. He wondered if, like him, she took the precaution of always carrying some kind of weapon. It never paid to be ill-prepared, especially around Wormtongue.

"Well, when Wormtongue realised that he could not trap me with his honeyed words, he tried…physical persuasion."

Éomer went very still, and his voice was very controlled when he spoke. "He touched you?"

She nodded. "Tried," she replied darkly. Her humour restored a little as she carried on. "And I politely advised him — in admittedly, a non-verbal manner — that if he ever wanted to use his hands again, putting them on me would not be a wise idea." She gave a tiny grin at the look of incredulity on his face. "I am certain the dagger at his throat had nothing to do with my position now."

He chuckled despite everything. It was impressive, her refusal to lose composure. It could not be something Gondorian noblewoman was used to, yet she did it well. "I have to commend you, my lady. I am here as I did something similar."

She smiled. "Grima wished to bed you as well? A man of diverse tastes, it seems."

He laughed a little louder, and they lapsed into silence for a moment before he spoke again. "Why are you here?" he asked.

She seemed surprised. "I told you, Worm-"

He interrupted. "No, I mean why are you in Rohan?"

"Oh. That is a rather long story," she admitted.

"We have time, you may have noticed," he said dryly.

She acknowledged the fact with a nod, and took a deep breath. "You may have heard that the race of Nùmenor was descended from a union of Elves and men, and that traces of this heritage may still be found in the men of Gondor."

He nodded, and she continued.

"Well, in Dol Amroth the Elven blood runs stronger than most. Especially in my family," she added with a trace of melancholy in her voice. "Do you remember me saying I could smell Orcs to Théodred the evening we met?"

He nodded again.

"Well my gifts are Elven senses. I see, hear, smell with the clarity and strength of an Elf. My father is physically stronger than other men," she explained. "My brother…Aerandir can move more swiftly and my brother Erestor heals much faster than normal."

He recovered from his shock. "How many brothers do you have?" he asked with a trace of amusement.

"Three. Argonui is my twin and shares my gifts," she answered.

"And your mother?" he asked, curious as to why she hadn't said anything about her. Surely Lothíriel had mentioned it being her whole family?

The noblewoman's voice went quiet. "My mother was different."

"How so?"

"Whereas the traits I, my father and brothers possess are boons, my mother's was what I can only call a curse." There was the sound of a deep breath. "She had the Foresight."

"I cannot see how that would be a curse," he said, frowning.

"No?" she asked.

"No," he replied, thinking of how useful it would be in battle to know your enemy's every move. "To know the future is a talent many would pay handsomely to possess."

"Really?" she asked bitterly. "The first time she touched anyone, she saw their deaths. When she had her visions, her mind could not hold its grasp on the present. Nothing she knew would be recognisable to her. When she walked in the future, I was the only one she let near her." Her voice was heavy, remembering the expression of pain on her father's face whenever his beloved wife had no idea who he was. "And at the end … she didn't even know me," Lothíriel finished, her voice breaking. "The Foresight is something only elves are meant to possess, my lord."

"Éomer," he told her.

She smiled slightly. "Éomer."

"Do you fear it?" he asked suddenly. "Ever developing the Sight?"

For a long moment, Lothíriel just looked at him, eyes wide, though in the darkness he could not read their expression. "It terrifies me," she said finally. "I came to Rohan after her last clear vision. Once she had had that, her mind simply … splintered. Shards of what is and what could be overlapped. It would be enough to drive anyone mad. The Elves made her as comfortable as they could, but …"

Fearing she might cry, he changed the subject. "What was her last vision?"

"She saw me, fighting amongst men. On stone walls. Saving the life of a king. Since Gondor's line of kings was broken long ago, it could only apply to Rohan."

Éomer frowned, focused on the first part of her sentence. "She saw you fighting — does that mean there will be a battle here?"

She nodded in the gloom. "Yes. Though I do not know where, or what our foe will be. As to the where, from what I saw of Edoras, it does not correspond to what my mother told me, nor does Aldburg."

Éomer's frown deepened. If the Riddermark were under attack, and Edoras indefensible … _walls of stone_ … Helm's Deep. His uncle would order them to evacuate the city and make for Helm's Deep. It was a good plan; nothing could breach the Deeping Wall, and within those walls, the Rohirrim could weather anything.

Lothíriel, when he told her, seemed less than convinced. "I would dearly love to believe you," she said with a shake of her head. "Yet knowing the magic Saruman is capable of, how do we know he has not brewed some new devilry, capable of breaching even the Deeping Wall itself?"

"Even Saruman cannot breach that wall," Éomer said firmly, pride in his tone. "It is perfectly designed."

Lothíriel chuckled gently. "I should have known better than to argue that Helm's Deep is perhaps not the ultimate fortress with a member of the Rohirrim."

His mouth quirked up at the corners before he could stop it. It was true - he and his countrymen were proud to the point of defiance sometimes about that particular stronghold. But it was with good reason. "Even so," he said. "There can be no denying that is has served us well in the past."

"No," she agreed. "Théodred told me a little of its history. I can see why you hold it in such high regard."

"When you see it," he declared, "you will understand why."

"Then I hope to soon," she replied. "After we have been released. If."

"When," he corrected. "Wormtongue holds the political power true enough, but the éoreds are heartily sick of him. It will not be long before they break."

"But in a state of revolution, can any nation wage war?" she asked quietly. "Much less a battle of this importance."

"We must, so we shall," he said simply. "Once he is free of Wormtongue's influence, my uncle will be more than capable of leading us to victory."

"I pray you are right."

* * *

**A/N: I know that Lothíriel's brothers are called Amrothos, Elphir and Eirichion, but there is a reason she's lied, which will come to light later in the course of the story. Review please!**


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N: This chapter contains dialogue quoted directly from the book, which of course I'm not claiming as my own work. And I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter out. **

**Chapter Four**

They spoke little in the following days. The guards came in twice daily to bring food, and to escort Lothíriel to a place of relative privacy in which she could use the privy. They hadn't bothered before, but that had changed now that she and Éomer shared a cell. She'd noticed her treatment had improved rather drastically since the Third Marshal had become her cellmate — not that it had been very bad before, but they had candles now, more food and more water. Éomer had been right when he said that the men were tiring of Grima. In a few weeks more, Lothíriel would not be surprised if they were released during the coming revolt.

She was aware that the waiting was uncomfortable for Éomer, and she did not mention any possibility of an uprising. He was used to being in command of these men, for all that he was one of them. More, now. He would be the next King of Rohan. It occurred to her that he had not realised that. At least, she didn't think he had. Though, if he had, it would certainly explain his brooding.

Finally, though, Éomer spoke.

"Tell me how Théodred died."

She looked up from scratching meaningless patterns on the wall. "I would have thought Grima would gloat over telling you."

"He did," Éomer replied simply. "But I would prefer the truth."

The princess nodded. "I understand that. I imagine that Grima said something to you of recklessness. Of stupidity."

His eyes flickered sharply from blue to black and back again. "Something akin to that."

"He lied," she said simply. "We were attacked by things…creatures I'd only ever seen in my nightmares. I still don't understand what they were, but they had the strength of two men at least. I can't tell you exactly what happened, since I'd left the camp. Looking for medicinal herbs," she added at his angry look. "When I arrived back, most of the men were already dead. Théodred and Grimbold were all that were left, holding the Ford. If not for Elfhelm's arrival we all would have fallen, but Théodred… He did fall. We beat them back with Elfhelm's aid-"

"Are you not a healer?" Éomer demanded.

"Of course I am," she returned, a little more hotly than she intended to, "but there are some wounds that cannot be mended. If there was anything to be done, do you not think I would have done it? He may have been your cousin, but he was my friend too."

Éomer nodded. "I know."

He did not apologise; somehow Lothíriel had not expected him to. "He lived long enough to tell us not to bring him back to Edoras. That we should let him lie there, to guard the Ford until… Until you came."

He was silent. She moved her attention away from his grief. She did not know him well enough to intrude upon it. When he did speak again, she jumped. "Thank you."

She nodded.

"When I asked you if you feared the Sight," he said slowly, "you told me the truth without reservation."

She smiled. "I am usually more cautious, but I do not think it is something an enemy may hold over me. It is not in the power of any to curse me with that."

"True. But I feel as though I have taken a secret from you, offering nothing in return."

"You could always tell me your greatest fear," she said, feeling uncomfortable for a reason she couldn't truly identify. This was an inappropriate conversation to be having with a man she barely knew. It was far too intimate. But it didn't feel wrong. It didn't _feel _inappropriate.

She saw his grin. "Marriage."

Lothíriel laughed. "Oh indeed. A most terrifying prospect for any soldier. Imagine having a warm bed to come home to!"

He chuckled too, the sound slowly filling and warming the air. "In truth, though, I have no idea what my greatest fear is. Unless it is-"

He was interrupted as Lothíriel put her hand up, her head tilted to one side. Mindful of what she'd told him, Éomer knew she was listening hard for something he had not a hope of hearing. "Shouts," she murmured. "I think… Aragorn? No, why would he be here, I…"

Then came sounds Éomer's ears could pick up on. Booted feet, metal jangling, then the screech of wood upon stone. Lothíriel got nimbly to her feet. "They are coming for us."

He also stood, though noting that her tone had not been one of alarm. When the door was opened —wrenched open — in haste, it was one of his men who greeted them. His expression indicated that he did not know whether to be ecstatic or terrified. "Háma?" Éomer asked. "What is it?"

"Lord Éomer, the- The king, he- He-" Apparently abandoning a full sentence, he only gestured urgently. "Come!"

Éomer was out of the door before anyone had blinked. Fearful that they might forget she was here, Lothíriel took the opportunity to quietly follow. Elfhelm was there also, more articulate than Háma had been. She blinked as she turned the corner — not at Eflhelm, but at Éomer. In the time they'd been in the cramped cell, she'd forgotten how large he was. Now that he was once again in a position of command, he seemed massive.

"Explain," he ordered, the tone of his voice even, the pitch anything but.

"The king is… Well, he is recovered," Elfhelm said, spreading his hands helplessly. "Gandalf Greyhame is come, but he- He is no longer the Grey Wizard, but the White. With him are a man, an Elf and a Dwarf. I- I don't know how, but-"

"Fetch my sword," Éomer ordered to a soldier on his left, before turning again to Hama. "And my sister? Is she well?"

"She is, but…"

Lothíriel didn't stop to listen to the rest; she'd heard Aragorn's voice, she knew she had, and if he was here, then so was Boromir. Her cousin could explain to her what, by the Valar, was going on here. To have Théoden King restored could only be a good thing, but Gandalf? Gandalf was dead.

It quickly transpired that Gandalf was _not _dead. He could not be dead, because he was sitting at the right hand of Théoden King, hair and beard gleaming white even in the gloom of the Golden Hall. Their heads were close, and Gandalf's lips were moving rapidly. Even Lothíriel's keen ears could not make out his words, but ever as he spoke the light shone brighter in Théoden's eye. When he stopped, Théoden strained to rise, managed to do so. As she had been with Éomer, Lothíriel was struck by how large his physical presence was. He was an old man, yet still stood a head above her.

With Gandalf at his side, they moved over to the window that faced the east. Lothíriel slipped through the shadows quietly, heading for where she saw three of those she expected to. Aragron, Legolas and Gimli — but where were the _perian_, Boromir?

Hearing her soft footsteps, Aragorn turned, his grey eyes unsurprised to see her, but somehow dreading her presence too. It was not a dread Lothíriel shared; their arrival had brought her freedom, after all. "I am glad to see you, _melloamin_. And…Gandalf even more so," she beamed. The shyness she had felt in the presence of the Wizard had faded; having him here, alive, was incredible. It was…_he_ was…hope.

Aragorn's gaze was not on the Wizard or the king; he was still looking at Lothíriel as though she was missing something staring him in the face; as though there were an Oliphaunt in the room and she was wilfully ignoring it. "Lothíriel…"

"What is it?" she frowned. "Where are the rest of your fellowship?"

"I-"

They were interrupted by Gandalf, speaking in a loud and clear voice, still looking toward the east. "That way lies our hope, where sits our greatest fear. Doom still hangs on a thread. Yet hope there is still, if we can but stand unconquered for a little while."

On Aragorn's other side, she heard Legolas murmur almost inaudibly, "Orodruin…"

So much for her having the senses of the Elves — Lothíriel could see the mountains that surrounded Edoras, and if she truly strained her eyes, there was perhaps a glint of white. Minas Tirith and the Tower of Guard. But it was so faint that she wondered if what she saw was not a fancy. There was no sign, to her, of the Mountain of Doom.

Slowly Théoden sat down again, as if weariness still struggled to master him against the will of Gandalf. "Alas!" he said, "That these evil days should be mind, and should come in my old age instead of that peace which I have earned. Alas for Boromir the brave! The young perish and the old linger, withering."

Lothíriel felt as though an iron fist had seized her heart. "P-Perish?" she gasped.

They all of them stopped to look at her. Lothíriel did not bow to Théoden, only stared in horror. The King had obviously recognised Éowyn, judging by the fact that his niece stood close by him and looked lighter already, but he showed no sign of knowing the princess. She had only met him twice, after all, but suddenly his blue eyes widened.

"Princess…Mirima?"

Lothíriel swallowed and shook her head. "No, Lord. But I am her daughter. Lothíriel is my name. But, please, my lords — what of Boromir? Is- Is it true? _Is _he gone?"

Aragorn took a deep breath and a step toward her. "It's true, Loth. He is dead."

The world muted itself. She no longer heard words even muffled. Aragorn took her elbow, steered her toward a wooden bench and pushed her onto it. She saw his mouth moving, but knew not what he said. Boromir was dead. Her cousin, the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, the hero of the realm, the best solder in Middle Earth- Gone. The Valar, it seemed, gave with one hand and took away with the other.

"Now you must become King, Aragorn," she told him through numb lips. "Gondor has just lost her champion."

He moved on for some reason, Lothíriel left staring at the flagstones. Boromir was gone — how? Had he fallen to the madness the Ring offered, just as she had predicted? By the Valar. Had she _predicted _it? Had the curse of her mother followed her? _No. Please no. _

At Théoden King's cry, she jerked out of her stupor. She heard that, to be sure; the shout was so loud and strong that it would have shaken the birds from the rafters. He chanted in Rohirric, which she followed easily. She was not of the Mark, yet it was hard not to feel imbued with the same defiant spirit that now seemed to fill the King.

"Arise now, Riders of Théoden! Dire deeds awoke, dark is it eastward. Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded! Forth Eorlingas!"

Suddenly the doors to the Golden Hall burst open, the guards thinking they were summoned and with naked swords in hand. They immediately knelt and laid their blades at his feet. "Command us!"

Lothíriel jumped as she heard Éomer's voice — when had he entered the hall? When had he greeted his rejuvenated uncle? That did not seem to matter too much, though; however he had done it, he was smiling broadly, such as she had not seen from him in all their time imprisoned together. And his voice was joyful. "Westú Théoden hal! It is a joy to see you return to your own. Never again shall it be said, Gandalf, that you come only with grief!"

Théoden put a hand on his shoulder. "Take back your sword, Éomer, sister-son," he said, turning to Háma while he handed Éomer back the hilt of his sword. "Go, Háma, and seek my own sword! Grima has it in his keeping. Bring him to me also. Now, Gandalf, you said that you had counsel to give, if I would hear it. What is your counsel?"

"You have yourself already taken it," answered Gandalf. "To put your trust in Éomer, rather than in a man of crooked mind."

Lothriel, forcing herself to focus on the words being exchanged now lest she fall back into her oblivion, glanced at her cellmate, half-expected a proud expression on his face at the praise from the White Wizard, but Éomer's face reflected only a heavy sense of duty. She should have known better; he was a proud man, she had gleaned that much already, but proud in his race, in his men and his family. Not in himself, she thought.

Gandalf continued. "To cast aside regret and fear. To do the deed at hand. Every man that can ride should be sent west at once, as Éomer counselled you: we must first destroy the threat of Saruman, while we have time. If we fail, we fall. If we succeed — then we will face the next task. Meanwhile your people that are left, the women and the children and the old, should stay to the refuges that you have in the mountains. Were they not prepared against just such an evil day as this? Let them take provision, but delay not, nor burden themselves with treasures, great or small. It is their lives that are at stake."

So there would be another battle. Good. She knew how to fight, how to slaughter orcs like the animals they were. She could take revenge for Boromir then. Her hands were already trembling with the rising bloodlust.

"This counsel seems good to me now," said Théoden. "Let all my folk get ready! But you my guests-truly you said, Gandalf, that the courtesy of my hall is lessened. You have ridden through the night, and the morning wears away. You have had neither sleep nor food. A guest-house shall be made ready: there you shall sleep, when you have eaten."

Eat? Sleep? She could do neither.

"Nay, lord," Aragorn put in. "There is no rest yet for the weary. The men of Rohan must ride forth today, and we will ride with them, axe, sword, and bow. We did not bring them to rest against your wall, Lord of the Mark. And I promised Éomer that my sword and his should be drawn together."

_And mine_, Lothíriel thought, inwardly adding her name to that oath.

"Now indeed there is hope of victory!" said Éomer.

"Hope, yes," agreed Gandalf. "But Isengard is strong. And other perils draw ever nearer. Do not delay, Théoden, when we are gone. Lead your people swiftly to the Hold of Dunharrow in the hills!"

Even as he said it, the princess knew Théoden would not. To hide was not the Rohirrim way, at all. They were warriors from birth to death; it would be unthinkable for the King not to fight and defend his country. He could have seen five score years and still he would not go.

Sure enough, Théoden and Éomer were both shaking their heads. "Nay, Gandalf!" said the king. "You do not know your own skill in healing. It shall not be so. I myself will go to war, to fall in the front of the battle, if it must be. Thus shall I sleep better."

"Then even the defeat of Rohan will be glorious in song," said Aragorn.

The armed men that stood near clashed their weapons, crying: "The Lord of the Mark will ride! Forth Eorlingas!"

"But your people must not be both unarmed and shepherdless," said Gandalf. "Who shall guide them and govern them in your place?"

"I will take thought for that ere I go," answered Théoden. "Here comes my counsellor."

At that moment Háma came again from the hall. Behind him, cringing between two other men, came Grima the Wormtongue. His face was very white. His eyes blinked in the sunlight that now filled the hall. He was unaccustomed to it, she assumed; it had been so dim in here before.

Háma knelt and presented to Théoden a long sword in a scabbard clasped with gold and set with green gems. "Here, lord, is Herugrim, your ancient blade," he said. "It was found in his chest. Loath was he to render up the keys. Many other things are there which men have missed."

Including, Lothíriel hoped, her own blades and weapons. She had managed to keep the seal of Dol Amroth around her neck; nothing save removing her head would have made her relinquish that — no one had tried.

She ceased to pay attention after that. There would be a battle, and soon: of that everyone seemed certain. She was equally certain that she would be involved in it, since no one here held any dominion over her to stop her. Aragorn, perhaps, but even if he tried she could always refute his claim to be her King. It would be some time before he had a crown on his head, after all.

She could not help the guilt that crept up on her. When she learned of Gandalf's 'death', she had experiences a hopelessness that went down to her bones. Now, though her grief was personal and much deeper, there was nothing like that. Boromir was the best soldier in Gondor, and it would be a huge morale loss for the people; until their King returned. He had been an incredible leader of men, able to command a level of valour from them unmatched; but she knew Aragron equally possessed the quality. Any soldier under his command would follow him to their deaths with a single word. It was horrible, but it was almost as though Aragorn simply could replace Boromir. But not, she knew, in his father's eyes — and certainly not in Faramir's. Faramir! He had, for as long as she could remember, worshipped his elder brother with the same kind of reverence she did her father. News of Boromir's death would devastate him. She must write to him, once she knew how, where, why. It would not be better coming from family, but it might at least help him to know that his grief would be shared.

How could Boromir be gone?

* * *

Éomer was unable to prevent his lip from curling, and nor did he try to. Though Wormtongue was in fact standing, the creature squirming on its belly in front of his uncle was both pitiful and disgusting to behold. The fact that he still apparently could not keep his pale, bulbous eyes from flicking occasionally to Éowyn made his hand clench reflexively around the hilt of Güthwine. Éomer glanced at his sister; she caught his gaze and gave him a reassuring, if sombre, nod. His immediate desire to gut Grima where he lay faded a little. The paralysing fear he'd seen in his sister was gone now, replaced with a grim defiance right for the shieldmaiden she was. Though, he noted a little sadly, she was no closer to smiling. As was the case for Lothíriel, it seemed. Clearly, the news of Boromir's death had affected her badly; she was not listening to the words of the men around her, instead staring unblinkingly into the middle-distance. Éomer wondered if she had loved him.

Théoden spoke again, his voice commanding and his eyes steely. "The host rides today," he announced to the hall. "Send the heralds forth! Let them summon all who dwell nigh! Every man and strong lad able to bear arms, all who have horses, let them be ready in the saddle at the gate ere the second hour from noon!"

Wormtongue hoisted a horrified façade onto his face, but it failed to convince anyone now, least of all the King. They all of them saw it for what it was: a mask. "Dear lord!" he cried. "It is as I feared — this wizard has bewitched you! Are none to be left to defend the Golden Hall of your fathers, and all your treasure? None to guard the Lord of the Mark?"

Théoden shook his head in an almost amused fashion. "If this is bewitchment," he said, "it seems to be more wholesome than your whisperings." The humour abruptly left his voice as he took a menacing step forward. Wormtongue actually squeaked. "Your leechecraft," the King said lowly, voice holding a gathering sword, "ere long would have had me walking on all fours like a beast! No, not one shall be left, not even Grima! Grima shall ride too. Go! You have yet time to clean the rust from your sword."

Éomer was willing to bet that Grima did not even own a blade, and if he did, those puny arms would be totally unable to lift it. He'd better fancy Lothíriel's chances against him, though Grima was taller and broader than her. That woman had a steel edge in her gaze that spoke of battle; something he'd seen before only in his own sister. Besides, even if Grima was willing to ride into battle, he would almost certainly be beaten to death by the men before he could make it to an orc. True, there was no honour in murder, but for Grima Wormtongue, even Éomer might be willing to make an exception.

Sure enough, Wormtongue's eyes were wide with panic, and he immediately dropped to his knees. "Mercy, lord! Have pity on one worn out in your service! Send me not from your side! I at least will stand by you when all others have gone. Do not send your faithful Grima away," he pleaded, flicking his gaze at the marshal. Éomer forced himself to remain still.

"You have my pity," Théoden affirmed, "and I do not send you from my side. I go myself to war with my men. I bid you come with me and prove your faith."

Suddenly Wormtongue physically shrank, became that pale, flaccid worm writhing on the ground. He had nowhere to go, Éomer realised. He had run out of those clever words. He was trapped, and in that trap, had become powerless. There was nothing he could do, no net he could weave to trap the King again. Éomer felt laughter bubbling up from the pit of his stomach, slowly rising like a spring. They were free.

Wormtongue licked his lips with a long pale tongue. "Such a resolve might be expected from a lord of the House of Eorl, old though he be. But those who _truly _love him would spare him his failing years. Yet I see I come too late. Others, whom the death of my lord would perhaps grieve less, have already persuaded him. If I cannot undo their work, hear me at least in this, lord! One who knows your mind and honours your commands should be left his Edoras. Appoint a faithful steward. Let your counsellor Grima keep things till your return — and I pray that we may see it, though no wise man will deem it hopeful."

The laugh left Éomer's mouth. "And if that plea does not excuse you from war, most noble Wormtongue, what office of less offer would you accept? To carry a sack of meal up into the mountains — if any man would trust you with it?"

"Nay, Éomer, you do not fully understand the mind of Master Wormtongue," Gandalf told him. "He is bold and cunning. Even now he plays a game with peril and wins a throw. Hours of my precious time he has wasted already. Down, snake!" he shouted, his voice terrible. "Down on your belly! How long is it since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price? When all the men were dead, you were to pick your share of the treasure, and take the woman you desire?"

Éomer heard Éowyn draw in a sharp breath, and she took a reflexive step toward her brother, clutching his arm briefly. Gandalf flicked a compassionate glance at her, and then like quicksilver was condemning Wormtongue again. "Too long have you watched her under your eyelids and haunted her steps."

The wild rage was back, and Éomer grasped his sword again. "That I knew already, and for that reason I would have slain him before, forgetting the law of the hall. But there are other reasons." His uncle and Théodred being but two, and Lothíriel being another. He stepped forward, to be stayed by Gandalf's hand.

"Éowyn is safe now," he assured him. "But you, Wormtongue, you have done what you could for your true master. Some reward you have earned at least. Yet Saruman is apt to overlook his bargains. I should advise you to go quickly and remind him, lest his forget your faithful service."

"You lie."

Gandalf moved forward, pressed the foot of his staff briefly to Wormtongue's throat. "That word comes too oft and easy from your lips!" he growled. "I do not lie. See, Théoden, here is a snake! With safety you cannot take it with you, nor can you leave it behind. To slay it would be just. But it was not always as it now is. Once it was a man, and did you service in its fashion. Give him a horse and let him go at once, wherever he chooses. By his choice you shall judge him."

"Do you hear this, Wormtogue?" asked the King. "This is your choice: to ride with me to war, and let us see in battle whether you are true; or to go now, whither you will. But then, if ever we meet again, I shall not be merciful.'

Slowly Wormtongue rose. He looked at them with half-closed eyes, scanning Théoden's face with his mouth opening silently. Then, like the snake Gandalf called him, he struck, baring his teeth and spitting at the King's feet. He darted between the guards and sprinted down the stair. No one in the hall was surprised, and Théoden gestured to the door-wardens. "After him. See that he does no harm to any, but do not hurt nor hinder him. Give him a horse, if he wishes it."

"And if any will bear him," Éomer added. Firefoot certainly wouldn't, nor would Éowyn's Windfola or the King's Snowmane. He couldn't imagine any horse in the stables would.

With Grima gone, any remaining tension in Théoden's shoulders was erased, and he smiled. "Now, my guests, come! Come and take such refreshment as haste allows."

Éowyn nodded and made to move toward the kitchens — only to stop a moment later and go to Lothíriel. The Gondorian woman hadn't tracked anything that had passed, and was still staring into the same space she had been since Éomer had entered the hall. Éowyn said nothing, but took Lothíriel's hand and led her out with her.

When his sister returned, a few moments later with ale and food, she was alone. Éomer wasn't the only one to have noticed this, since a brief frown crossed Aragorn's face, and he when Éowyn poured ale into his goblet his spoke quietly. "Lady Lothíriel?"

"On the terrace," Éowyn told him. "She wished to be alone. But…"

"But?" Aragorn asked, grey eyes keen.

"But I do not think that will help her. Solitude and grief make poor bedfellows."

Aragorn smiled. "You are wise, my lady." He got up, leaving the table and going outside with a spare cup in his hand, presumably for Lothíriel.

Éomer gave him ten minutes or so to cheer her before he decided to give it a go himself. If she had been told of the exact circumstances of Boromir's death, and that Saruman was to blame, he would not have put it past her to ride out and hunt Grima down herself.

He found her standing on the terrace outside the Golden Hall, looking out over the men preparing their raiment of war and horses for riding out that very day. Aragorn was next to her, speaking in a low tone. Explaning, he assumed, how Boromir had perished.

"I'm sorry, Lothíriel."

She nodded, and Aragorn squeezed her shoulder before moving past her. He gave a sad smile to Éomer as he passed. Éomer nodded to him, then returned his gaze to Lothíriel. She threw the remaining wine in her cup to the back of her throat, then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

"Lothíriel?"

She didn't look at him. "You may call me 'Loth', if you wish. Most of my friends do."

"Loth, then. What's wrong?" he asked bluntly.

"You've heard of Boromir's death?"

"Yes. What was he to you?"

"My cousin. And in all likelihood my future husband as well. I am…finding it difficult to understand how he can be gone."

He swigged from his own cup. "I understand."

She looked up, eyes realising. "Yes. Forgive me, it must be worse for you. I am being silly."

It was arguable that losing his cousin had been more dramatic than Lothíriel losing hers — Éomer had been given responsibility for a country — but it was both their futures that had disappeared like smoke. "No," he said. "You're not being silly, Lothíriel. Knowing with certainty where you are headed brings comfort for anyone. A week ago I was a soldier; now I am heir to the throne. Your case is not so different." From the little he knew about Gondorian society, he imagined that for a young noblewoman, having no idea where a suitable marriage would come from was a frightening prospect.

Lothíriel saw where his thoughts were, and smiled suddenly. "Nay, Éomer, I am not concerned for myself or my marriage status."

"Then what is it?" he asked.

"The last time Boromir and I spoke, I told him that the path he followed would lead to madness and- and I think I even said death. I certainly _felt _that, if I did not say it. And now he is dead."

She fell silent, staring broodingly at the ground. Her voice had been drenched in sorrow, yet her eyes were completely dry. Remembering their discussions in the cell, it was easy for Éomer to guess the true cause of her dismay.

"You fear you somehow predicted his death?" he asked quietly.

She shrugged, and Éomer put a hand on her shoulder. "Loth."

She sighed. "It's possible. I can't help thinking, wondering, how long until it might be before I fall into madness."

"You won't."

"How can you know that? _I _don't know that."

"When your mother saw the future, you said she had visions. Did you have a vision of Boromir's end?"

She shivered. "No, thank the Valar."

"Then perhaps you were only looking at the situation with a wise head and clear eyes."

She scanned his face for sincerity, her green eyes yearning. She wanted him to be telling the truth. "Thank you," she finally smiled.

He echoed her smile. "You are welcome, min drút. Now, my sister is looking for you. She's had your things moved to her chambers, and wishes you to stay with her while you are in Edoras."

"She is most kind."

Looking considerably brighter at that prospect, she went back inside, seeking Éowyn. Éomer finished his ale and followed, finding Aragorn refilling his cup. The Marshal did the same. While he did, Aragorn motioned to where Lothíriel and Éowyn were now laughing together. Éomer felt a wave of gratitude for Lothíriel — it was the first time in _months _he'd seen Éowyn smile, let alone _laugh_.

Aragorn shook his head. "What did you say to her?"

Éomer shrugged. "Only that she could not be faulted for Boromir's choices. She blamed herself."

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully, sipping his drink again. "I met Lothíriel years ago, Éomer," he said conversationally. "And I don't believe I know her as well as you seem to."

* * *

_Min drút - my friend_

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**A/N: Review please!**


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